


Taunt

by drosera



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Fear, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drosera/pseuds/drosera
Summary: Felix taunts death. Jeritza responds.---Kink meme prompt: "Felix is really into knifeplay/bloodplay. Fetishistically into it, more into the knife than the sex. He could cum from just getting teased with a knife. And maybe he does. Something deep within him can't help but writhe when under a knife, and being so close to death, and then the sharp cuts and seeing blood on a blade? Even Felix can't explain it."
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Jeritza von Hrym
Comments: 9
Kudos: 87
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Taunt

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags. Careful with this one. It's less play, more...just directly to the knives, swords, and blood.

Felix slows his footfalls as he approaches the training grounds, his heartbeat pounding steadily in his ears. 

The light of the moon is almost garish across the dusty courtyard. It flicks over the edges of Jeritza’s sword like an oil slick as he moves gracefully, soundlessly, over his shock of white-blond hair as it floats and trails his movements. Jeritza is always unnervingly silent when he fights. Felix has watched him many times before, though only by daylight. There is nothing in Jeritza’s bearing that suggests a sense of humor or tolerance for being watched, especially without ample warning. 

And yet here Felix stands, sword at his side, watching. He is sure to let it hang casually from his fingers, his grip loose as if he’s approaching a flighty animal. He is not worried about Jeritza running, he reasons.

Calculating their respective heights, Felix estimates that Jeritza’s reach would be deadly for him. He’s seen Jeritza cut through the battlefield like an afterthought, his countenance not wavering save for a soft exhale of disappointment. Jeritza seems disappointed by everything. They have that in common, Felix thinks.

Or they should. By all rights Felix should be able to grasp Jeritza’s disappointment like he grasps his own, clutching and grasping and stabbing and slashing his way through battle and everything else. Watching Jeritza fight, Felix feels like he’s grasping at a stubborn mist. He can’t hold this nothingness, only feel the cold on his fingertips and a strange sense of loss. 

[Fear, he realizes. He is afraid of Jeritza.]

The request leaves his lips before he can stop himself, and Jeritza breathes out the barest, lowest breath of a laugh in response. Everyone at Garreg Mach expects a challenge from Felix. This should be no different. 

Jeritza’s throaty assent lingers around Felix’s ears like a fog as Felix draws his weapon. He’s one of the fastest swordsmen at Garreg Mach, if not the fastest, and he knows it. Jeritza is unbothered by this, countering Felix’s strikes with swordplay like miffed rebuttals more than strikes in earnest. He’s being toyed with, Felix realizes. Patience, patience, breathe. Jeritza won’t be distracted by footwork or noise. Better to get in cleanly and get out. 

This is what Felix tells himself just as he finds himself on his back. Pinpricks of stars shimmer in a cloudless black sky as his vision swims from the impact. His whole body aches from sparring, wasted effort, and rage. Jeritza is a disaffected weight atop him, his blade a deceptive tickle against his throat. Felix can feel his pulse pounding against the razor sharp edge. His intrusive thoughts have him leaning forward to meet that edge. He instead draws a slow breath in, ragged and shaking. 

“Easy prey,” Jertiza hums, that low voice like a tiger circling its quarry. Felix does not arch into the sound. What can he say to that? With any other opponent he’d roll, use his leverage to start grappling [with the understanding that they were not fighting to kill.] Here, the wooden training swords lay sheathed beside the training grounds, untouched. Jeritza’s blade is very real and very sharp. Jeritza’s hand is perfectly steady on the hilt. Felix’s throat cannot move, nor can the rest of him. 

“Is that it, then?” Felix finds himself gasping. “Are you going to kill me?”

Jeritza huffs an approximation of a laugh. The blade eases at Felix’s throat for a moment—and then the wind is knocked out of his lungs again as Jeritza lunges forward, pressing a knee into Felix’s chest and stabbing his blade into the ground just to the left of Felix’s ear. There is a sound, a small wail, a catch of breath. It is not Jeritza, because of course it’s not. Felix realizes he is shaking. He is cold. He wants to hold himself and stop the shivering but he is afraid to move his hands. 

“Would you be ready if I did, little soldier?” Jeritza is staring down at him, studying him. 

“Yes.” No. Not this time. Not like he’d practiced. [Not like this, maybe not ever.]

There’s a sudden movement and another blade, this time pointed at his chest. A dagger, Felix realizes. There’s a flash of heat, then cold. Jeritza has cut him, clearly on purpose. It's shallow and unimportant in the grand scheme of wounds Felix has had, but he can feel the warmth of blood welling up, trickling free.Felix’s knees are not trembling from below where Jeritza straddles him, inhuman heat pinning him like the hot iron of an immovable forge. 

“Hm,” muses Jeritza. “Clearly not.” 

Felix should fight back. Any minute now he’s going to fight back, wrap his hands around that pale neck and roll them over and show Jeritza that Felix Fraldarius will not go down without a fight.

Up close, Jeritza’s gaze is even colder. Felix has seen this look on large beasts in the forests of his homeland, confident in their dominance. Unbothered. Waiting. Felix tries to calm the rapid pattering of his heartbeat as Jeritza leans in and considers him. 

The dagger moves again and Felix gasps as he feels the fabric of his shirt tear like paper. There’s that heat, that stabbing ache, and the sudden hot-cold of blood rushing and soaking. He feels a moan leave his throat as he tries to slow his exhale, tries to process the heady pain. Jeritza is holding the blade steady, still shallowly, barely in the wound, and it hurts all the more for it. This close, Felix can smell Jeritza, a sour tang of wet metal and bitter herbs. He feels his stomach turn as his body begins to shake and shudder. 

Jeritza drags the blade downward, slicing Felix’s shirt farther open, just barely nicking the skin now, and Felix forgets himself and reaches to grasp at Jeritza’s thighs. They are steel under his hands because of course they are. Jeritza is immovable. Felix is not pushing him away. He can’t. 

The cold air bites against his skin and Jeritza is laughing at him, he thinks. Is that laughter? It’s so faint it’s hard to tell, and Felix’s pulse is pounding in his ears and he is so, so hard. He is so hard and he does not understand but he cannot stop himself and Jeritza is laughing at him and it’s not fair at all. He wants Jeritza to press the knife deeper. He wants to scream. Instead he arches into that unyielding body, and since he does not beg it can not be his lips that whimper, “Please.” 

Felix’s cock is straining against the front pants. He can feel his pulse pounding waves of synchronous pleasure-pain through his body—pleasure into his throbbing cock, pain through the open wounds that sting and ache and bleed in the frigid night air.

Jeritza’s other hand moves suddenly, large and firm down his body. Smearing. Jeritza is making a mess of him, and Felix is letting him. “Please,” he feels his traitorous voice rasp, too high. 

“Is feeling your lifeblood drain away so arousing for you, little soldier?” Jeritza’s voice thrums through Felix’s veins and he wonders if the blood loss is making him dizzy or if it’s just the redirection to his groin. “Is this little death to be so literal?” Jeritza’s hand presses down Felix’s torso, as if coaxing the blood to come out. Felix can feel the burn of the edges of his wounds opening further and he grits his teeth, thrusting against Jeritza ineffectually. He does not want to come like this. He is going to come like this. His knees begin to tremble and Jeritza huffs a laugh again. Out of the corner of his eye, Felix sees the knife move again.

There’s a sudden cold edge against Felix’s throat and he chokes, wails as Jeritza presses down. His eyes roll back in his head as he feels himself spend in his pants, hot and shameful. He is drooling, gasping for breath. He is nothing.

He is still drawing breath. 

Felix realizes that the blade against his neck is reversed, the sharp bevel pointed away. He has been spared. Spared to lie in the dirt, smeared in his own blood, caked in his own humiliation rapidly cooling in his pants. He takes a shuddering breath and begins to shake. Jeritza’s weight on his hips should not be comforting. It is warm. He does not look at Felix as he withdraws the dagger, sheathing it in a thigh holster.

“Weak,” he says. It sounds almost affectionate. 

Felix can not say how long he lies there. He knows Jeritza looks at him for a considering second and then rises, his footfalls near-silent as he disappears from the training grounds. He feels the breeze rustle his ripped shirt as it taunts his healing wounds, dragging across the blood caking there. By the time the rosy touch of dawn begins to curl over the horizon, he feels like his heartbeat is almost normal. Almost warm again.


End file.
